The air in the Aetheric Waste Line was a suffocating blend of sulfur, stale moisture, and the unmistakable, sickly-sweet scent of industrial decay. The darkness, absolute and crushing, was barely pierced by the small, sputtering gas-lantern strapped to Elara's belt.
Kaelen moved awkwardly, the pain neutralizer doing its job to dull the agonizing throb in his ribs, but not the deep, internal ache of his exhausted body. He walked hunched over, navigating the narrow, curved pipe, the toxic water sloshing around his boots.
The Clock Tower. We must maintain momentum.
Aura (Faint, steady hum from the insulated pouch): Warning. Environmental parameters are highly unstable. Air quality is toxic. Oxygen level degrading. Elara's knowledge of the Understructure is verified as high-accuracy. Follow her instructions implicitly.
"Don't stop," Elara whispered, her voice bouncing unnervingly off the curved walls. She was moving with the practiced ease of someone who treated the sewer as her living room, her small, compact frame navigating the obstacles perfectly. "The moment the power comes back on the surface, the Guild will purge these lines. We have four hours of cover, but they won't wait."
"The Wastelanders," Kaelen murmured, recalling her warning. "Are they Corps soldiers? Scrappers?"
Elara shook her head, the movement subtle. "Worse. They're the forgotten. When the Collapse hit, the people trapped down here survived on the residual Aetheric waste and toxic runoff. The energy mutated them. They hate light, they hate clean logic, and they hunt anything that still smells like a surface-dweller."
As if on cue, a new scent joined the toxic cocktail: a sharp, burnt-metal stench, like iron left too long in the fire.
Elara instantly stopped, extinguishing her lantern. The darkness became total, swallowing them whole.
"Hold your breath," she hissed, pulling Kaelen against the slimy pipe wall. "They hunt by scent and thermal signature. Don't move."
Kaelen obeyed, pressing the small of his back against the pipe, gripping the smooth, inert Quantum Disc in his pocket. He forced his breathing shallow, relying on the brief relief the neutralizer had provided.
The total silence was broken by a sound that made the hairs on Kaelen's arms stand up: a soft, scraping click-click-click, followed by a wet, slurping sound—like a hundred tiny insects feeding on rust.
The sound was approaching from the deep darkness ahead.
Aura: External biological threat detected. Multiple entities. Species classification: Homo Sapiens Mutate 4. Threat level: High in confined space. Recommend Gravitic field disruption to temporarily disorient.
No, Kaelen thought, overriding the AI's cold suggestion. I can't use the Disc. We need its power for the Regulator.
He relied on instinct—instinct born from years of hunting Relics in the dark. He pulled his trusty, heavy-duty wrench from his belt, gripping the cold steel.
The scraping noise was now right in front of them. Kaelen could feel the subtle movement of air displaced by the creatures.
Suddenly, a pair of eyes—not glowing with Aether, but with a horrifying, dead phosphorescence—appeared less than two feet from Elara's head. The creature was hunched, its limbs too long, its head too small, and its skin a pale, fungal white.
It didn't shriek. It let out that chilling, wet slurp.
Elara reacted with astonishing speed. She didn't fight. She reached out and deftly reversed a nearby pressure valve on the pipe wall.
Pfffssssssshhh.
A thick, blinding cloud of frigid, non-toxic Methane Gas—a byproduct of the waste—erupted from the valve.
The Wastelander hissed, a sound like steam escaping a weak seal, and recoiled immediately. The other creatures, moving in silent tandem, also scattered into the gaseous cloud.
Elara grabbed Kaelen's arm, her grip surprisingly strong. "Run! They hate sudden environmental changes and cold gas. It disrupts their thermal tracking!"
They plunged forward, splashing through the toxic runoff. Kaelen ran with the focus of pure survival, pushing the image of the creature's dead eyes out of his mind.
After a grueling sprint, Elara stopped abruptly at a vertical shaft sealed by a heavy, bronze access port.
"The main vertical tunnel under the Grand Plaza," she gasped, leaning against the cold metal. "We ascend from here. The Regulator is fifty feet above us, secured under the Clock Tower's deepest foundations."
Kaelen was bent double, hands on his knees, sucking in the thin air. His broken ribs protested every movement.
"The door," Kaelen managed between ragged breaths. "It's sealed."
Elara merely nodded, pulling out a small, specialized Aether-driven cutting torch.
"Nine locks, Kaelen. Seven keys. But we only need access to the Regulator mechanism, not the vault itself. I can cut a maintenance hatch—it'll take five minutes. The sound will draw every Wastelander in a mile radius, and the sound of the breach will alert the Mechanist Corps."
Five minutes. An eternity in the dark.
Kaelen finally pulled the Quantum Disc out of his pocket. He looked down at the silver, inert surface, feeling the cold, silent logic trapped inside.
Aura. I need the shield. Max endurance. No Gravitic tricks. Just light and sound dampening.
Aura: Understood, Mechanist. Initiating Low-Power, Long-Duration Stealth-Shield. It will not hide the sound of the cutting torch, but it will confuse their directional hearing. Max endurance calculated: 4 minutes, 50 seconds.
Kaelen didn't question the 10-second deficit. He connected a small, internal battery to the disc—a Scrapper's energy cell—and the Stealth-Shield shimmered into existence around them, invisible but tangible. The air around them grew still, the background sounds muted.
"Five minutes of muffled existence," Kaelen said, his voice flat with resolve. He handed Elara the Quantum Disc. "Connect this to your cutting torch. Use its focus to narrow the beam and minimize the cutting time."
Elara took the Disc, her goggled eyes widening slightly as she felt the density of the Quantum metal.
"You're turning a piece of dead god into a soldering iron," she noted, a flicker of pure, scientific delight overcoming her fear.
"We need the logic to cut clean. Get to work, Architect," Kaelen said, lifting his heavy wrench.
He turned and faced the dark pipe they had just fled. The soft click-click-click of the Wastelanders was already returning, closer now, drawn by the scent of fresh blood and surface-dweller energy.
Kaelen knew he couldn't fight them. His job was to delay. To stand in the narrow gap and let the broken logic of the Quantum Disc, combined with the pure instinct of a Scrapper, buy Elara the time she needed to cut through the ancient bronze.
Four minutes and fifty seconds until the shield collapses. Time to defend the perimeter.